I'll Be Your Shelter
by Triskell
Summary: RENT: Mark and Roger's relationship develops over time. (Slash)


Title: I'll be Your Shelter

Author: Triskell ([ferngully_at@yahoo.com][1])

Pairing: Mark/Roger

Rating: R

Warnings: SLASH; strong allusions to sex; character death. Don't like it, don't read.

Disclaimer: RENT & all associated characters and information belong to Jonathan Larson. The story is mine.

AN: I heard the song on the radio and the story popped into my head. Of course, the true "blame" lies with writer and beta extraordinaire Shin, who believed in me and supported me. The title is her suggestion as well. Thanks for everything, esp. the brilliant beta job! 

**** (SC) indicates a "SelfCensor". I have changed it to comply with Fanfiction.Net's policy which forbids NC-17 rated material. In case you want to read the 'uncensored' version, please contact me and I will point you to a place where it is available.

Great big thank you to the folks at Rentfic101 who were kind enough to review this and point out a few mistakes. You rock! Remaining faults are mine. Additional Notes are at the end of the story.

**~ * ~ ****I'll Be Your Shelter**** ~ * ~**

**© Triskell, July/August 2002**

All gone, all over. Three months. So little time to say what he had thought he would never feel again. Too little time. One 'I love you' that still echoed in his ears as if the sheer power of those words could bring her back. His angel, his Mimi.

Roger sighed and turned away from the loft's window. He had been given a chance to make up for his leaving her on her own. And just when he had thought all would be well, she had been taken from him. Suddenly, forever.

He had walked out of the hospital without sparing a glance for the others. None of their words had penetrated his stupor, the pain. He had come home, to the place she had shared with him, sat on their bed, in his room. And his hand had inadvertently groped for the small satchel that he had sworn to himself he would never need. And still kept close. Taunting him – testing his determination every day, at least once.

Fear, pain, and loss never lay still. Even though they passed him by, seemingly failing to touch him. He had barely noticed the bare bleakness left by Angel in their small circle. He no longer spoke to his mother. Her love for him confused him. He didn't understand why she would care for someone like him. Someone who should have died long before all others.

And yet his body held out, refused steadfastly to give in. And he took his AZT each day, never failing. He couldn't bring himself to forget about it. Nor about the small 'emergency supply' he held in his hand now, in the faded leather satchel that had once held his collection of baseball player cards. Back when life was easy and he still thought that there was only black and white in the world.

"Nothing is pure, all is grey," he mumbled, gripping his stash tightly. It would bring him the oblivion he craved – once more. Not enough to end it all, but enough to end the illusion of controlling his destiny.

~ * ~

Mark knew exactly where his friend had gone to, and he lost no time following him. Spring had failed to bring more than a few rays of dirty sunshine to the metropolis, concrete streets lined with hapless grey buildings that towered still and lifeless over the tiny, teeming population.

The door to the loft wasn't locked, but he knew Roger's door would be. And he was well aware of the reason. What the other man considered his secret, Mark had already discovered while cleaning up – a small leather satchel, so inconspicuous that he wouldn't have looked inside, had it not been for the place it had been kept in.

Roger probably didn't realise he had been found out, and it didn't matter too much either way now. What was important was that he wouldn't take any of it. So many hours, days and weeks spent fighting the pull of a substance Mark couldn't hold anything against, save his physical presence. Bruises that had healed well before Roger was lucid enough to question their appearance – before he could guess he had inflicted them.

Not even Maureen knew. Or Benny. Only Collins had suspected something and been sworn to secrecy. It wasn't for any of them to interfere. It was Mark's fight. A lone rider against all the scum of the Wild West. And he had succeeded. Though he had not meant to ever ride on his crusade again.

Striding over to Roger's door, he pounded onto it; hard, "Roger! Open up!"

There was no response, not that he had expected any just then. He continued knocking, ignoring the splinter of wood that came loose, pushing into his skin. There was no physical pain he couldn't handle. Not when he was facing his friend's walking into the abyss of addiction once more.

"Roger, please! Don't take it; it isn't worth giving up your…"

He never finished his sentence. Who was he to tell Roger that Mimi's death wasn't worth it? That _she_ wasn't worth it? He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He couldn't measure the love and devotion those two had shared, could he? Obviously not. He had never given himself over to emotions so entirely. Mimi had, like Angel, held nothing back – she had been the physical expression of her feelings.

And that was what Roger needed, wanted, and missed. Naturally. And, once again, Mark had little comfort to offer. His words failed him; he wasn't enough to soothe the pain. Half-heartedly he noticed that he was still hitting the door that separated him from his friend - its faded white paint full of fissures and cracks that allowed the old wood to peak through, like sunshine through clouds.

"Roger, don't. Please, don't…"

He trailed off again, unable to say more, unwilling to say less. He was trapped in his own helplessness. Collins' voice surfaced in his thoughts, words spoken as he left the hospital. 'He needs a friend now. More than anything. He needs you, Mark.' 

His hand was moving as if of its own volition, up and down, though he hardly noticed it. His lips moved, forming sounds that gradually rose against the stillness, loud enough to echo in the wide loft, the sound of the traffic outside almost whispering along with the melody,

_"When you're down and troubled_

And you need some loving care 

_And nothing, nothing's going right_

_Close your eyes and think of me_

_And soon I will be there_

_To brighten up even your darkest night…"_

There was no reaction from within the room, not even the creak of the bed, though Mark pressed his ear against the aged wood that vibrated with the steady beats from his hand, now closed into a tight fist, striking out at the ghost that waited in its small satchel to be released once more to haunt the lives of two men.

~ * ~

Roger heard the footsteps, though he was unwilling to accept their closing in on him, as reluctant as he was to hear his friend call to him. So Mark knew what he had hidden in his room? He hadn't bothered to take it away, so why was he getting all riled up now?

'Cause he cares. And cause he trusts you.' An unacceptable answer, one that only served to make him feel guilty for wanting to inflict pain on his friend. He didn't react to the not-quite-mention of Mimi's death. Was losing her love a reason to throw away the precarious stability in his life that he had built up? It was a thought he had contemplated while he had walked back to the loft. Was she worth giving up all he had worked so hard to achieve? Little as it was.

It meant a lot to Mark apparently, but then it was him who had seen Roger through the withdrawal, insisted he go to his check-ups. Had kept the drugs a secret, lied to a concerned mother time and again, telling her that her son was well, only busy with his band. 

Oh yes, his mum didn't know just what he had gotten himself into. She had briefly heard about April, commiserated, and then been left in the dark. Never even supposing Roger might be HIV positive. It wasn't worth bothering her with. She would have fussed, wanted him to come to her to be taken care of. He didn't want to go home. He wanted to stay alone in his misery. And all he had done was stay close to the one person who insisted on getting him out of it.

And had brilliantly succeeded, for all that Roger was now on the brink of taking all of this away from him. Mark's voice was uncharacteristically heavy, as if he were having a hard time breathing, pounding on the door erratically, singing slightly out of tune,

_"You just call out my name_

_And you know wherever I am_

_I'll come running to see you again_

_Winter, spring, summer or fall_

_All you have to do is call_

_And I'll be there_

_You've got a friend"_

Roger tightened his hold on the satchel, squeezing it almost brutally, staring into the greyness of the city visible outside his window.

~ * ~

Mark's knees were shaking, and he was fighting back tears. He couldn't remember if there had been more than one stanza for the song, but it seemed useless as it was – Roger wasn't reacting, wasn't telling him to stop, or moving, or opening the door.

Giving in at last, Mark slumped to the ground, drawing his fist downwards, registering a painful pull as his skin was torn open. Huddling against the doorframe, his voice barely above a whisper, he repeated the song as he remembered it, time and again, like a mantra,

_"When you're down and troubled_

_And you need some loving care_

_And nothing, nothing is going right_

_Close your eyes and think of me_

_And soon I will be there_

_To brighten up even your darkest night_

_You just call out my name_

_And you know wherever I am_

_I'll come running to see you again_

_Winter, spring, summer or fall_

_All you have to do is call_

_And I'll be there_

_You've got a friend"_

A gloomy, blackened red light was infiltrating the loft as twilight fell, as if to cover up all wrong in a dark blanket of forgetfulness. Mark couldn't have said how long he had sat there – it might have been an hour, perhaps two or three. He hadn't looked at his watch since leaving the hospital.

His voice was quiet now, but still insistent enough to bring forth a raspy melody as his throat was raw and hoarse. He didn't usually talk much, nor did he sing regularly. His mind was a blank, save for the one image that drew him close – Roger lying on his back on the bed, blue eye wide open, staring up at the ceiling, off on a trip to nowhere-land. The picture he didn't see simply because the door was closed. But he could still remember and very vividly so.

A shuffle broke through his hazy state of mind and he almost lost his balance when, moments after a screechy grind of metal against metal, the door was opened. He was about to look up, when his friend squatted down beside him, eyes stormy and unusually dark, but completely lucid as he grabbed Mark's hand, pushing the leather satchel into it and closing his fingers around it tightly. 

Moments later, Roger pulled away, standing up and disappearing in his room again, closing the door abruptly.

Staring uncertainly at the lightweight stash, the tempting impact of which he had feared so much, Mark leaned back against the door heavily, releasing a long breath with one single tear that trickled down his cheek as if in an afterthought, and a small smile played around the corners of his mouth.

~ * ~

Roger sat heavily down on his bed, his mind processing what he had just done. He had given over all chance of forgetfulness, his last hold on an old, fickle friend of his, merely because someone had sat in front of his door like a puppy, annoying him with an out of tune, sappy song and pounding knocks.

Someone. Mark. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dimness, until there was only a black gloom left, penetrated here and there by the harsh slivers of garish white light tinged with yellow on the edges that broke from the few intact streetlamps.

He had a headache, and his heart was still beating too hard against his ribcage. He was feeling it fully for the first time. And it was painful and unnatural that he should. But then again, it no longer mattered. He had no recourse, no way out now. And he had wanted it this way.

Sighing, he massaged his temple, putting a bit more pressure than might have been necessary against his aching head, relishing the stab of pain it brought. It was strangely relieving. Looking up at the ceiling, he felt dizzy for a moment – he couldn't remember having eaten and all he had drunk was something hot that had smelled remotely like coffee, thrust into his hands by Mark.

A glass of water didn't sound too bad just then, and though the thought surprised him, he willed his legs to move, sitting up gingerly when the room had ceased to spin. He stood up carefully and inched through the darkness one step at a time, one hand braced against the wall until he felt steady enough to walk properly. He slowly made his way to the door, turning the key and opening it as silently as he could.

Just as he lifted his foot to step out, something warm and heavy dropped against his leg, causing him to grip the doorframe to retain his balance. Glancing down, he discovered it was Mark, sleeping soundly, clutching the leather satchel to his chest. He could have taken it again, but instead decided to shake his friend awake.

It wasn't long before his steady nudging roused a disoriented and sleepy Mark, who, without protest or questions let himself be dragged to his feet, leaning against Roger's body for a moment before pulling himself upright, a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"You ok?"

"Yeah." It was less of a lie than he had thought it would be.

"Midnight snack?"

Roger shrugged. He hadn't planned on eating, but he might as well. He had chosen not to let go of that damned lucidness, and perhaps that was why he was now trying to occupy his thoughts with all but memories of Mimi.

"I could make scrambled eggs if you want," Mark's hand had landed on Roger's arm, steering him towards the kitchen and gently pushing him on one of the stools there. 

He took two chipped mugs and formerly white plates from the cupboard and grabbed a few eggs from the – thanks to Benny – working fridge. When he placed them carefully beside the frying pan and the remnants of butter he had scraped together, Mark noticed the leather satchel resting between his ingredients.

He grabbed it, almost uncertainly, casting a glance at Roger. Quickly excusing himself, he went to his room, placing the stash in one of his wardrobe's drawers, amidst his underwear. It was an obvious place to look, but he doubted his friend would come for it that night and he'd think about what to do with it the following day. 

Coming back to the kitchen, he saw Roger putting the butter into the frying pan and moved to his side immediately to help. He was surprised when his friend took hold of his hand, pulling him towards the table where the slightly battered first aid kit had been set up. 

Mark couldn't remember who had brought it in: probably Collins in one of his attempts to furnish the loft. He gasped at a sudden searing pain on his skin that was quickly replaced by a burning sensation. 

"You had a splinter there. And a graze too. Shouldn't attack wooden doors, you know."

Mark smiled slightly, letting Roger put a generous strip of sticking plaster onto his disinfected wound. "Thanks."

His only reply was a non-committal grunt as his friend busied himself with putting everything back into the kit. Mark turned around towards the stove again, placing the pan on it. A few moments later, Roger joined him and they prepared their scrambled eggs as they had done quite a number of times before – a small step into a normalcy that had so shortly before seemed unreachable.

~ * ~

The door to the loft creaked on its hinges when Roger stormed in, calling for Mark and receiving no answer. He was pale and his body trembled, though it was no longer the cool wind from the streets that shook him.

He should have known his friend wasn't at home. He had his own life after all, couldn't always be there when Roger wanted to talk. If he wanted to talk. He wasn't quite sure. Perhaps all he needed was to look at the other man, making sure that everything was real, that the news which had left him in such turmoil was not just a figment of his imagination.

Forcing himself to take deep breaths, Roger turned around slowly, almost automatically closing the door, gently this time. He took off his jacket, laying it onto one of the kitchen stools as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. He'd take a shower. That would calm him. Even if the water was likely to be freezing.

Throwing his discarded tee, socks, and jeans into his room, he looked about for a towel, cursing when he found it – it was still wet. The heater had obviously broken down again. Fine. Now shivering in the cold, Roger padded barefoot into Mark's room, telling himself it was alright to rummage through his friend's wardrobe since all he wanted was a dry towel.

Trying not to disturb the haphazard array of folded underwear and shirts, he went through drawer after drawer, finally coming across the other man's socks, spare scarf, and cap. Just as he was about to give it up and continue his search elsewhere, he caught sight of a small white package.

His breath caught in his throat, long familiarity telling him exactly what it was. His chest constricted and his left hand balled into a fist, knocking hard against the wardrobe. Not Mark. How could he have missed it?

A soft clicking sound announced someone's entry – Roger was convinced that it could only be one person. He grabbed the package tightly, his face screwed up with rage as he turned on his heel. He stormed into the living room, rushing at his friend and brutally pushing him against the nearest wall.

"Ouch! Roger, what…"

Mark's eyes were wide, uncertain, as he took in the other man's pale, shaking form – clad only in white briefs – that was pressing into his body forcibly, one hand having taken a death grip on his tee's collar.

"What is this?" The question was strained, almost a hiss, coming as it did from between gritted teeth.

Not knowing how to respond since he had no idea what the other man was talking about, Mark shook his head, wincing when Roger pushed closer, his blue eyes sparkling harshly.

"What's this, Mark…answer me!" 

Staring mutely at the white package his friend held, it was very hard to come up with an explanation. He had meant to throw it away, but then again – it wasn't his stash and he wasn't exactly comfortable handling it either since it brought back so many unpleasant memories. So he had simply chosen to forget it, removing it from the leather satchel that he had laid quietly on Roger's bedside table.

"Answer me, damn it!"

If he hadn't been frightened by the vehemence in his friend's demeanour, Mark would probably not have been as lost for words as he was; he could, however, not manage to explain himself properly and settled for the next best alternative – stalling.

"Ah, it's …ah…a bit of…"

"A bit? You call that a bit? Why, Mark, why?"

It slowly dawned on Mark just what had Roger so riled up and, as soon as the reason for the frantic breaths became apparent, he tried to get his arms up to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder, calm him, comfort him.

"It's not, Roger; really, it's not mine…" Having managed to extricate himself from the strong grip when the pressure let out a little, Mark did the thing seeming most natural to him just then – he reached out and pulled Roger into a tight hug.

"It's the stash you gave me, Roger, I just couldn't…I didn't know what to do with it. I'm sorry, I should've gotten rid of it. I'm not taking anything."

Abruptly pulling back, the other man looked into his eyes as if looking for confirmation, then he grabbed Mark's hand and dragged him to the bathroom. There he grabbed the first sharp object he found – which happened to be a small pair of scissors – and cut the package open, letting the white powder fall and settle in the sink as he turned on the water.

Roger stared at the mesmerizing swirls as the two substances mixed, never taking his eyes off them till there was no more trace of the drug. A hand dropped onto his, warm and real, and he shivered when Mark put an arm around his shoulders.

"Come on, get dressed. Don't want you to catch a cold."

"He's dead."

It was surprisingly easy to say it, though it came out in a hoarse whisper.

"Who?"

"Billy. One of the guys I worked with, once. Haven't seen him in ages. They were mentioning him at the club today – overdose."

Mark bit his lip, his hand tightening his grip on Roger's.

"It could've been me."

"It wasn't. You quit. You're clean, you've got your life back under control."

"I don't know that."

"I do."

Roger turned around, leaning against his friend, accepting the invitation of the open arms as he laid his head against Mark's shoulder. That was the reason he'd come home after all – because he needed his friend, the warmth and comfort.

~ * ~

The door to the loft seemed far away from the bottom of the stairs. But Mark trudged up the steps nevertheless, bracing himself for the tell-tale burning in his thighs. It was always hardest when he was tired.

And he hadn't slept properly for a while. At least not since he had a job. Apparently Collins had somehow managed to warm Benny to the idea of helping his old flatmates out – a few drinks, perhaps a few choice recollections of Mimi that his wife wouldn't like to hear about; if anyone could pull it off without the taint of 'blackmail' it was Collins.

And so Alison Grey had been persuaded to kindly ask around for job opportunities. And promptly landed Mark with a post as camera man for PBS WNYE. As yet he was mainly chasing one errant reporter or another on their forays into the 'underworld'. It was far better than working for Alexi of course, since quality research was valued, not outrageousness.

But it also meant that he had little time for himself since he had to be on call for most of the nights and was, now and then, called in during the day time as well. He would be filling in for the senior camera men who could afford taking a bit of time off. He had no such luck yet, having started only recently.

The crack under the loft's door let out a thin beam of light, and Mark wondered briefly if Roger had forgotten to turn off the lamps again. When a few riffs drifted into the stillness – broken only by his own breath and the sound of his steps on the wooden stairs – he smiled.

Knowing that Roger would probably be expecting him, Mark didn't bother to knock to announce his presence and opened the door which was, unsurprisingly, unlocked.

Roger was sitting on the battered couch, his guitar in his lap which he was stroking absent-mindedly with one hand while scribbling onto a thin sheet of lined paper. He looked up quickly when he heard the click of the lock, gave a wave with his biro, and fell to writing again.

Mark took off his jacket and unwound his favourite scarf – a present from his grandmother the year before she died: a very long, thickly knitted woollen monster that he loved dearly – carefully hanging both across a rickety plastic chair.

He rubbed his hands together, glad not to be in the wind any longer. At least climbing the stairs had warmed him – it always did wonders for his circulation.

"There should be some tea left from earlier if you want," Roger offered, not looking up from his paper.

Mark mumbled his thanks as he took one of the mugs from beside the sink, filling it with the lukewarm brew his friend referred to as 'tea'. To him it was just water and a bit of washed out spice that, in the end, always ended up tasting like…water. 

Sipping his drink, he opened the fridge, smiling when he found the carton of fresh milk. Roger must've heard him complain that there was none left that morning and remembered it when he went to the store. 

Hot milk with honey was one of his mother's prime recipes for a good sleep. And Mark was ready to try anything to get a bit of rest.

"Want some hot milk, Roger?"

"Hm… No, thanks."

"Writing a new song?"

Mark had no intention of prying, but he was curious all the same. Especially since his friend hadn't been working on his music for a while. It was comforting to see him come back to it – a sign he was moving on as well as he could.

"Doesn't qualify as a song yet. Just a few words, and I'm missing the melody."

"You'll find one, I'm sure."

"Work was ok?"

Mark smiled, accepting the turn of their conversation without as much as a blink. "Yeah. Seems like we're up for a gang war of sorts in Manhattan. Cops weren't too forthcoming, but we're on to the story. Guess it's a pretty good one."

"Thought crime rate had dropped and all…"

"Exactly. That's why this is such good news. Or not."

Roger laughed softly, bunching the sheets in front of him together and pushing them into a small folder, crumpling them in the process. He put his guitar on the floor, stretched and then lay back against the side of the couch, pulling his legs up under him. 

"When's the story coming out?"

"First report's for tomorrow morning – we've done the cutting and all tonight."

"Hm."

Mark cast a glance at Roger over his shoulder while he stirred his milk in the small pot, careful not to let it boil over or burn. He was beginning to be puzzled by his friend's behaviour. It seemed as if he wanted to talk, for all that he looked about as tired as Mark felt. Since subtlety wasn't something he accomplished easily in the middle of the night, he decided to ask a straightforward question.

"Something bothering you, Roger?"

Blue eyes fixed on him questioningly as the other man gave his best impression of a nonchalant shrug. "Just thought you'd like to talk a bit. We don't see each other that much."

But they used to – at least before Mark got his job. Roger usually spent time with his drummer and keyboarder, going over their songs, trying to get a gig or two. They weren't successful most of the time though. 

They weren't working together as smoothly as they used to, since three of their former band members had quit. Now only the core was left, and their sound had to change to adapt to the new situation. Which wasn't as easy as it seemed.

The milk was starting to boil, so Mark took it off the stove, pouring it into two mugs, adding a teaspoon of honey to each. He made his way over to the couch, sitting beside his friend and holding out one of the drinks to him.

"Here, helps you sleep."

"You're the one who's restless."

Mark cocked his head, but Roger didn't seem to want to elaborate on the comment so he let it pass. They sipped their hot milk in silence, glancing at each other from time to time.

"I've got a mobile at work. If you…you can call me."

Mark's voice sounded strained even to his own ears, yet the silence was getting uncomfortable as his friend slipped out of his reach, his expression suddenly almost blank.

"You're not alone," he added.

Roger smiled, a lingering sadness in his eyes as he laid his hand on his friend's shoulder and met his gaze in a silent 'Thank You'. It was enough for Mark to realize there was still more he had to deal with, and Roger's not letting him help was exasperating.

"Tell me what you want."

…and I'll give it you.

There was no need to say it as the other's smile deepened in quiet understanding. But Roger shook his head, averting his eyes. "It's nothing you can give me."

"Tell me."

Mark tried to hold back a sigh. It was so useless to keep things from each other. Especially in times like this. They both needed someone to be there now and then, Roger even more than him.

"I miss…kissing her. And…touching, holding…damn. I miss being with her."

It was a quiet admission, almost painful in its hesitance. And not exactly what Mark had expected. He closed his eyes for a moment, then, touching Roger's hand, he leant forward to press their lips together softly.

He'd surprised his friend. And himself. Pulling back, he tried to smile encouragingly. He knew he probably just looked as daft as he felt. 

"Thanks."

Roger brushed past him, his hand briefly resting against Mark's chest, before sliding across his shoulder gently. Of all possible scenarios that had come to mind in reaction to the kiss, this had been the least likely. Not that any of these possibilities had ever actually occurred to Mark before. 

He heard the door to Roger's room close and smiled as he took the mugs back into the kitchen, filled them with water and turned off the lights.

~ * ~

Roger turned around with a groan, opening his eyes to stare at the shadows cast by the gleaming white streetlamps outside against the darkened grey of his room. He had decided to wait up for Mark because he wanted to show him the draft of his newest song, but his friend hadn't shown up. 

Around ten, Mark had called. "I'll probably be out all night with the team for a cover story. Might crash with one of the guys – I should be home early tomorrow night though."

He had sounded almost apologetic, but Roger had simply let it pass. He had no right to ask the other man to come home every evening. He remembered Mimi's reluctance to be told when to be back – he had never completely dared to trust her not to meet another guy. Even though he'd known she was only working. Her eyes had told him the truth. And he had often been too afraid to really look into them – so intense and caring.

He missed her, but it was more the idea of her presence, her warmth and love that he needed. Mark remained his grounding force, his connection to reality. As much as that realization scared him, it also was freeing in a way. To just admit, if only to himself, that his friend held such an important part in his life. 

Roger sighed, lying on his back, his arms crossed behind his head. He didn't feel like checking his watch, and sleep was eluding him as it was. So he stared at the ceiling, a small smile playing around his lips as he thought of what Mark would say to his song.

~

He must have fallen asleep after all, for he came awake with a start, his heart beating hard against his ribs. Catching his breath, he heard the tell-tale creaking of the loft's floor; he threw his legs over the edge of the bed, getting up though he still felt a bit groggy from his short sleep.

He opened his door a little and peeked out, making sure that it was really Mark coming home and at the same time looking about for any 'friends' he might have brought with him. He wasn't particularly keen on intruding on a romantic moment.

"Hey; hope I didn't wake you."

So much for not being seen. Roger smiled and shook his head, moving into the living area where Mark was sitting on the rickety chair they most often used as a coat stand. The construction didn't seem exactly stable under his friend's weight as it swayed slightly.

"Tired?"  
  


"Yeah, I guess. Glad I'm home though."

"Hot milk?"

Mark smiled at Roger's obvious concern and shook his head. "I'd rather change into something that's not wet and cold. I don't suppose there's hot water?"

"Not enough for more than a quick clean-up shower."

"Drat." Of course he'd have liked to stand under a steaming spray for a while – it would've released his tension and warmed him up much faster than shivering under his cold blankets until they actually got comfortable through his own body heat.

"Well…goodnight then."

Roger looked a little dejected, and Mark sighed. "You ok?"

"Yeah."

Oh, master of understatement – he definitely wasn't alright. The quick glance that his friend had cast at the couch table gave Mark a little clue, and he stood up to go over, picking up the sheet of paper that lay atop it.

"Hm. You finished your song?"

"Think so."

"Can I hear it?"

"Tomorrow. You'd better get some sleep."

Mark smiled, shivering a little as he stood on the spot, his wet socks magnifying the floor's coldness against his feet.

"Get changed; I'll see if I can find another blanket."

Roger had already disappeared in his room, and Mark went to his, discarding his clothes as fast as he could. It hadn't been raining particularly hard, but then he'd been outdoors for most of the day. And there hadn't been time to properly warm up in between interviews, documenting this and that, and generally being inquisitive and reporterly. 

Mark liked his job, but he definitely hated working conditions most of the time. It wasn't long before he was huddled on his bed in his thickest pyjama, wrapping his feet in his blankets. He hadn't been able to find the garish yellow socks anywhere that he wouldn't be caught dead wearing – yet they were made of thick, warm wool, and he would have done anything to warm up.

A soft knock on his door and Roger came inside, carrying a blanket which he flung onto Mark's bed. Sitting down, he held out a pair of slightly frayed green ski stockings to his friend with a wry grin. "Not the best, but since you dumped those socks of yours in the wash the other day…"

Squeezing Roger's hand briefly, Mark took the stockings and pulled them on, his toes warming a little at last. He didn't protest when – after lying down –  he was bundled up, relishing the safety and comfort that come from someone caring enough to do this for him.

He wondered briefly how his friend could actually sleep with only a t-shirt – at least he wore long pants and socks. But then again Roger had never been prone to feeling cold at any and all times.

"Want to stay?"

The whisper was barely audible, so quiet was Mark's voice. His friend heard him though and, after a moment's hesitation, lay down beside him, drawing one of the blankets up to his waist and taking the cold hand Mark held out to him in both of his.

Roger was pretty sure that this was what he had been missing most of all – having someone beside him who wanted him to be there, needed him.

~ * ~

There were many ways to explain what was happening between them, though Roger liked none of them particularly since they were so one-dimensional. Mark was neither just a convenient source of heat – his blankets would've been quite enough – nor did he require constant attention like a four-year-old.

The simple truth was that Roger liked waking up beside someone he liked who happened to care for him as well and didn't shy away from giving him a hug now and then. Regardless of whether or not he'd woken up from a nightmare – just because it felt good to hold and be held.

Still, it was a different kind of need that hung between them one night as they both lay awake, holding hands. Mark had quarrelled with his mum on the phone, about his father as usual. He just didn't like going home to be questioned about his choices in life. It wasn't easy to keep his spirits up sometimes, and Cohen senior always managed to hit him where it hurt the most. 

Not being on the school baseball team. Not finishing college. Not staying in Scarsdale as he was meant to and marry. Not being able to stop Maureen from being a lesbian – probably one of the worst failures ever. It had taken his friend a long time to be able to talk about why his father so despaired of him. An admission of guilt for not being good enough. 

Which had been refuted by Collins as soon as it had left his lips. Yet even now, years later, these insecurities came back to haunt Mark. Though words were no longer required to help him; listening was enough. 

"I'm not going home, Roger. I just don't want to anymore. Because I always go. I can't say 'no' to Mum even though I can't bear to see _him again. She wants me to come. She always does. And it's not as if I didn't want to see her."_

"You could ask her to visit."

"Don't think she'd come. He wouldn't want her to."

"But she'd know that she's welcome. That it's not her you're avoiding."

"Avoiding. Yeah, that's it, isn't it? I'm trying to avoid my own father. How pathetic is that?"

Roger's grip around his friend's hand tightened. "Hey, you're talking to the master of avoidance. I haven't spoken to my mother in ages. And what's more I keep…things from her. You don't lie to your parents. That's not pathetic; that's brave."

"Thanks." Mark didn't know what else to say. Roger's voice was calm, without anger or guilt. He was resigned to the fact that he didn't have a communion with his mum. Not even real contact. It was easier that way – why tell a parent that her only child was likely to die from an illness associated with drugs, poverty, and carelessness?

"I like you." It was weird saying it out loud. Still Roger said it, not merely to reassure his friend but also to hear himself utter the words. It was a weight off his chest to let go of his feelings that way. It had been so hard telling Mimi he cared, and he'd almost been too late in admitting it. He'd sworn that this wouldn't happen again.

A hand softly trailed up his arm, coming to rest on his shoulder. Mark's breath was warm, tickling his ear, as he whispered, "Like you too." Roger smiled, turning his head around, facing the other man. Their noses touched lightly, and he could make out Mark's smile in the faint glow from the streetlamps outside.

He wasn't quite sure how far this was going to take them, yet he knew his friend would stop him if he was uncomfortable. He leaned forward slightly, tilting his head and closing his eyes to better savour the softness of the other man's lips that pressed against his own.

Mark's kisses were gentle and warm. Like Mimi's. Touch upon touch, body against body. He couldn't remember when loving someone had ever been so easy. 

**** (SC)

Especially considering the fact he was in bed with his friend. It was familiar, comforting, and also strangely exciting. Not even the memory of his angel who had left him not all that long ago pained him as much as it had, perhaps because Mark held him so tightly, so safely.

He responded to each caress, love and acceptance washing over him. Only briefly did he try to pull away, when the reality of what they were about to do hit him, reminded him that he was HIV+ and Mark wasn't. That there was a risk involved in any intimacy of this kind. A risk too great to bear; but even then his friend soothed him,

"Relax, will you? I had a look at that aids.org site as soon as I knew Collins was HIV+. It's ok, just trust me."

And he did; amazingly enough.

"I won't leave you, Roger. Ever."

And he believed it; knew Mark wasn't just trying to appease his fear by saying it. He basked in the glow of being loved and cherished, living in the moment, taking what was offered gratefully, for once not wanting any more than he had.

Later that night, when the moon was painting lengthier shadows against their pale skin as they lay together, Roger smiled at his friend and curled up against his side, one arm draped across his chest, holding him in place.

Mark had feared that they might be awkward around each other, that it could feel strange to still share a bed, but these doubts fled as the other man's sleepily mumbled, "Night" into the hair at the nape of his neck. He couldn't resist kissing Roger's forehead softly once more before settling down in his embrace, his hand covering his friend's.

*** (SC)

~ * ~

"You don't think you could…ah…introduce me to that…that record label guy, could you?"

Mark did his best impression of what Maureen had labelled 'puppy dog eyes', smiling forcedly at the pretty blonde in front of him, even though his heart was hammering, and he wasn't quite sure it was he who was making such an outrageous request. Not that 'private deals' and 'introductions' were unheard of – with the large amount of artists at PBS it was inevitable, but then again, it had never been his style. 

"And _why would I do that?"_

"Because…I'd be…grateful?" He didn't know what she might want. What was her name again? Sally? He didn't really know most of his colleagues that well. And he'd never worked with her. All that was important was that she was a productions' assistant and stood between him and a guy who just might make Roger's dream come true.

"Hm. Not good enough, try again."

Was she teasing him? She definitely seemed to enjoy their conversation. Was she batting her eye lashes at him? Oh great, he couldn't take another Maureen. Or maybe…

"I'll take you out to…lunch?"

"Dinner; tomorrow evening."

"Ah, sure. Sounds…ah…great."

"Kay. Come along then, Mark."

"Sure."

Whatever was her name? He'd have to ask someone. Unobtrusively, of course. It was beyond embarrassing to not even know the name of the woman he was going out with. Sort of.

~

"I don't have the resources to do favours of this kind, Mr. Cohen."

"I know, it's just that… Listen, come to the 'Life Café' the day after tomorrow. Just listen to him. No strings attached. He won't even know you're there. Just…listen to him."

Mr. Philips, a small, stocky man, looked at Mark, sighing, then nodded. "Right. I'll come. But I don't promise anything. We're a small label; but – if he's really as good as you say – I _might_ consider him."

"Thanks! That's brilliant! That's…thanks."

"So where's this 'Life Café'?"

Mark grabbed a biro from the table beside him, grinning as he wrote out the address and the time Roger's gig would start. It wasn't much, but at least it was something.

~

"Hey Mark, how're ya doing?"

"Fine, thanks."

"You look nervous."

"Roger's coming on in a few minutes."

Collins' face darkened. "He's ok, isn't he? No…symptoms?"

"No!" Mark's voice was forceful, even though it shook. That thought was one he'd steadfastly refused to acknowledge. Well, it was true he'd been worried when Roger got that cold earlier in the month. But then it was February, and everyone caught the flu. And he'd recovered. Still, that coughing…

"No, he's fine." This time it sounded more convincing.

"Good to hear." Collins looked as relieved as Mark felt. 

"It's just…it's been almost a year since Mimi and…he still misses her. And he's frustrated. Cause it just doesn't work out. He's playing, he's writing, he's submitting demo tapes…"

"And he doesn't hear back, does he?"

"He got two rejections. Other than that, nothing."

"Don't worry so much. At least Roger's not alone."

Mark cocked his head, confused and slightly apprehensive. Had he missed the appearance of a new flame in his friend's life? Not that he had a right to know if it was a secret or anything, but he was somehow, sort of, involved. In a way.

Collins laughed and put his arm round the other man's shoulder companionably, "Jesus, Mark; how can a bright guy like you be that thick? The two of you are pretty tight; a blind man can see that."

"Really?" 

"Yeah – and I think you're the best thing that could happen to him."

Seeing Mark blush and avert his eyes, Collins pulled him tighter for a moment, then let him go and slapped his back.

"And now, enough sweet-talking. Let's get some seats!"

~

It had been a good performance, Mark thought. Just the right songs to emphasize Roger's voice, his intonation. The right songs to show how talented a songwriter he was. If only that was enough…

He had seen Roger being stopped by Mr Philips, the manager of the small label 'Easy Street Records' he'd talked to. Not that this meant anything. It probably was good though. Or maybe not. A bad critique would hurt his friend. More than he'd let on, of course.

"Hey, Mark, day-dreaming?"

Roger was nudging him, smiling, guitar case under his arm. 

"Yeah, I guess. Finished?"

"You bet. Let's go home. I'll treat you to take-away. Chinese?"

"Sounds good."

Roger didn't mention the Mr Philips. And Mark didn't ask.

~ * ~ beta end ~ * ~

The following week was hectic – Mark had a lot of TV specials to do, dashing here and there. He was also forced to work more closely with Sally – that had been her name after all – which wasn't unpleasant, but not quite comfortable either. She was nice enough and their dinner had been ok.

If not for the fact she seemed to be more than superficially interested in him. Or perhaps that was some sort of wishful thinking. He was human after all. Still, she had a habit of flirting with him that vaguely reminded him of Maureen. Which was a bad association. He wasn't going to take on another woman like her ever again. It wasn't worth the trouble – and the heartache.

But even though he was at home very infrequently, Mark noticed a few things. Mainly that Roger had taken to wearing pullovers and thick socks. And that he was using two blankets instead of one. Not to mention that he sometimes coughed in his sleep. Yet when Mark got up in the morning, his friend had gone out already, leaving him a cup or two of coffee and a bowl of Captain Crunch or some other cereal on the table.

And at night – well – he was tired and the other man was already asleep. At least he came home – that alleviated all fears he was using again. That, and the instance after Mimi's death.

Still Mark was anxious and decided to do something. One morning, when Roger came into the kitchen to make breakfast, he found a note stuck to the coffee box.

"New York Downtown Hospital, 170 William Street, Phone: 212.312.5000"

He frowned, pocketing the slip of paper. His cough had gotten worse over the past days and his chest did hurt. But there was no need to get a check-up. Was there? He didn't want to go, didn't want to be told that… NO. He couldn't have AIDS. Not yet. It was just a cold. But, if it made Mark happy, he might as well… or perhaps not.

~

"Mark, there's a call for you!"

"Thanks, Sally."

She was smiling brightly at him, running her hand up his arm as she brushed past him, closer than was necessary. He shuddered. But definitely not because he enjoyed it.

"Yeah?"

"Mark, it's…"  
  


"Roger! You sound awful! Where are you?"

"NY Downtown Hospital."

"Shit."

"Eloquent, Mark."

"Cut the crap! What's wrong?"

A small sigh made its way across the phone, drowned out in the harsh coughing fit that followed. Mark shivered involuntarily. Please, God, no. 

"I don't wanna…not on the phone." Roger's breathing was uneven.

"I'm on my way, wait for me."  
  


"6th floor, room 1634."

Mark's voice failed him. He hung up. So it was happening. Almost exactly a year after Mimi's death. Life was full of shit.

~

"Tell me, please."

"It's just a cold, Mark. They're keeping me here for a day or two. No need to worry."

"It's PCP, right?" Mark was startled at the brisk, cold efficiency of his own voice. Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, one of the first signs of AIDS. Lung infection. Roger nodded.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Just…hell, Mark, I don't want to…I mean…"

"Remember what I told you, Roger? You're not alone. I'm here. I won't leave you."

"I don't want you to go through this."

"It's not for you to decide. And anyway, you're being treated. You'll be back home soon. And then we'll take it one day at a time, kay?"

Roger took his hand, bringing it to his lips, accepting the offer, accepting Mark.

~ * ~

"Hello."

"Hi; ah…Mrs Davis?"

"Yes."

"This is…my name's Mark. Mark Cohen. I'm a…I'm a friend of Roger's."

"Oh, is something wrong with him?"

"No. I mean, yes, but… it's complicated. And a long story. And I'm in a phone booth. Ah… can you… call me back?"

"What's the number?"

"243.869.0888"

"Ok." She hung up. Mark did the same; took his scarf into his hands and started rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. Nervous. Roger would kill him. He jumped slightly when the phone rang.

"Hi?"  
  


"Mark?"

"Yes."

"What's wrong?"

He sighed. It wasn't his place, but she had a right to know. Her only son had been diagnosed with AIDS. It was official. And there was no point in keeping her in the dark, not when there was the possibility she might get a call from some stranger in a few months, telling her Roger was dead.  

~ * ~

Mark was in the middle of packing up his equipment when his mobile rang. He quickly excused himself, frowning when he looked at his caller's number. It was familiar, though he couldn't place it.

"Hi, this is…"

"MARK! What the hell were you thinking? Oh, wait, you weren't thinking at all, were you? You bloody well know to keep your nose out of my business! What fucking possessed you?"

Roger's angry screams were broken off by another coughing fit. Mark felt strangely calm. As soon as the breathing at the other end of the line had levelled out somewhat, he said, "You just answered yourself."

~

It wasn't easy focusing on his job when he knew his friend was still in hospital. Not wanting to see him. Or talk to him. At least he didn't mind having the rest of the gang visit him. That way Mark knew how he was – unless of course Collins, Maureen and Joanne were keeping something from him to spare his feelings.

This was also how he heard about Roger's mother. She had come to New York, stationed herself in a small hotel, and was coming to the hospital on a daily basis. From Collins' account, her son wasn't talking to her much, not even looking at her in fact. Mark knew he was ashamed. However, he supposed if someone could overcome this feeling it was a mother. Hopefully.

He didn't quite know why he bothered to shop when Roger would most likely be in hospital for another two weeks – he hardly cooked as it was. He'd have a sandwich at the channel for lunch and pick up pizza or take-away going home. Alternatively, he ate a bowl of Captain Crunch staring morosely at the guitar leaning against the wall beside one of the windows in the living room.

He missed Roger's presence – his laughter, rare as it was, his smile, his voice when he 'performed' a new work-in-progress for Mark. The basic idea of his friend close to him, physically, the warmth, companionship. The not-being-alone.

Having reached the door to the loft, he set down his camera and the paper bag and fished the key from his pocket. Walking inside, he set down his things in the living room, and caught sight of an unfamiliar black coat and a chic silk scarf topped with a pair of glossy leather gloves on the rickety chair.

It seemed as if someone were visiting – though he didn't know who it could be. The clothes weren't Joanne's taste, Maureen wouldn't be caught dead in any of them and other than that there was no one who might have a key. Unless…

"Hi! Mark, I assume?"

"Yeah, you're Roger's mum, right?"

She smiled. She looked fragile and small to him, her hair the same honeyed blonde as Roger's, her face familiar though without the sharper angels he was used to.

"It's nice to…meet you, Mrs Davis."

"Celia will do."

"Right. Ah…coffee?"

He wasn't quite sure why, but he was nervous. He shrugged out of his coat and almost strangled himself as he tried to pull off his scarf a little too forcefully.

"Yes, that would be nice. Can I help you?"  
  


"Sure."

They worked quietly, Celia making coffee while Mark stored the groceries. He was wondering what she thought of the loft. Judging from her clothes, she was fairly well off – it had to be a shock for her to see where Roger lived. It was draughty, old and shabby – peeling paint, furniture that could be considered antique without the bonus of being either nice or expensive…

"There you go." 

"Thanks."  
  


He accepted his cup and indicated the couch. They sat down, still silent.

"Roger's doing fine."

"Good."

"He'll be out of the hospital next Wednesday, or so I was told."

"Great."

"Why is he angry with me?"

Mark stared at the woman beside him. "He…you got something wrong. He's not angry…he didn't want you to know. It's just that…he doesn't like to be…vulnerable. It's nothing to do with you. He'll come round."

"But it's my fault Roger's not talking to you, right?"

  
He didn't know what to say to that.

"Perhaps you should visit him. Your friend Collins said you were very close. Roger needs you, more than me I'm sure."

"No, you're his mother…"

"There's a lovely little saying, Mark. 'Friends are the family you choose for yourself' – and right now, Roger's missing a family member."

~ * ~

After Celia's visit, Mark decided to go and see Roger. What was the worst that could happen? That he'd be thrown out; and he could deal with it. If his friend's mum was stubborn enough to stay when he didn't want her, well, than the man who had been so close to him most certainly could.

Jutting out his chin and squaring his shoulders, Mark knocked briskly on the door, opening it without waiting to be invited in. Roger didn't turn to look at him, but Celia did and smiled, standing up from her chair.

"I'm getting a coffee. Would you like one too, Mark?"

"No, thanks."  
  


She walked past him, pale and slight, stopping for a moment to give him a gentle nudge into the room. There were six beds all in all, four of them occupied. Three men glared at Mark, probably remembering the talk he'd had with Roger the other day. Most likely afraid of AIDS, or repulsed by the warmth of their relationship. Or both.

"Hey."

Sitting down and putting his camera on the ground beside him, Mark reached for his friend's hand, flinching slightly when it was pulled out of his grasp.

"I won't say I'm sorry. And I…I'm not leaving you alone again. Even if you don't talk to me. I'm…I can be stubborn."

"Yeah." Roger's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yeah what?"

"You're stubborn." At least it was an acknowledgement of his presence.

"We're showing a special documentary about Mick Jagger next week. Want me to tape it for you?"

Roger turned around, and Mark drew in a sharp breath. What a few days could do. His friend looked worse rather than better; probably the heavy medication and lack of movement and air.

"Do you pity me?"

"Sorry?"

"You heard me."

Did he? Mark wasn't sure. He was angry cause he was healthy and had a chance to make his dreams come true. Roger's time was limited. But was that pity? He wasn't in this room for charity's sake – he wanted to be with a man he cared for – who just so happened to be ill.

"No. No, I don't."

"What about your girlfriend? Doesn't she mind your being here?"

Mark sighed. He hadn't thought he'd be so misunderstood when he told his friend about Sally. And of course he couldn't say exactly why he'd gone out with her. 

"I told you she was like Maureen. She's ok, but I just went out to dinner. She asked, you know. It's nice not having to beg for once."

"You like her, don't you?"

"Roger, even if I _liked_ her, I'd still like _you more. She's a casual acquaintance, you're my closest friend. There's not even a choice about who I want to be with."_

The relief was visible on the pale, far too thin face. So insecure – damn him. Why hadn't he said anything sooner? Oh, of course, he was being angry and petulant. "You're an idiot, Roger, you know that?"

"As long as I'm _your_ idiot…"

The man in the bed next to them coughed loudly and exaggeratedly shook his newspaper. Homophobes. If that term actually qualified in view of what they shared. Mark grinned, taking a firm grip of Roger's hand.

"You sure are."

~ * ~

It was officially spring now, for all that the weather couldn't have been worse in the middle of November. Sleet, rain, even hail on occasions. Collins blithely called it 'mad April weather' and brought boards and old blankets to insulate the loft's draughty windows. Celia had mentioned Roger's coming to stay with her, but he had declined.

Given this answer, his mother had moved in with Joanne. The arrangement wasn't discussed, but they all recognised it for what it was. There was no way she'd be parted from her son now that she had him back. Even if for a short time only.

Roger soon returned to his band and his gigs, though he tired much more easily and more often than not couldn't keep up with the others after the first couple of hours. He took his medication without complaint, yet there was a lingering heaviness about him. He was stalling, and he needed to be more careful of his health than ever before.

Mark was out most of the day, working; though he tried to be home early each evening. It was some unspoken agreement, one of the many that had developed between them over time. Roger took charge of dinner – be it that he concocted a warm meal (usually a vegetable or meat soup), or ordered pizza. Just the kind his friend liked too, with lots of salami and little cheese.

It was on one of the first rainless – if overcast – days, that Mark came home to find the loft empty. It was a more than unusual occurrence and he started worrying immediately, his hand groping for his mobile in the pocket of his coat blindly even as he strode towards the small living room table, where a yellow paper was propped up against a flower pot. Not that there was any plant in it – neither man was good at keeping those blasted things watered properly.

"Mark,

Gone out with the band. Be back asap. 

No food, sorry.

Love, R."

Roger's handwriting couldn't be classified as anything but an 'untidy scrawl', though in this instance it was barely even legible. He must have been in a real hurry. That set off alarm bells, yet Mark knew he had to trust his friend. If he said he was fine and would be back, then so it was.

~

After having rummaged through the kitchen and made up a small tower of a sandwich – eaten piece by piece since it wouldn't stick together – and having carefully folded and stored away the note, Mark sat on the couch, a cup of tea in his hand, waiting.

It was almost midnight, when the door to the loft finally opened, and Roger appeared – ruffled, wind-blown and smiling. _Smiling_. Catching sight of his friend he moved forward, falling into a heap beside him on the couch, laughing softly as one of his hands landed on a thigh, the other wrapping into Mark's hair and drawing his head down for a soft, breathless kiss.

Pulling away, Roger produced a sheet of paper, waving it in front of his friend's face like a trophy.

"I didn't want to…tell you…before it was…signed." He was grinning from ear to ear, no, beaming was more like it. The last time he had looked so happy had been years ago – when Mark had first met him. When they'd first made friends.

"I take it you've got good news?"

"The best! It's…we've got a record deal. A real one, Joanne's our legal advisor. We signed today. Tonight. And then had a drink to celebrate. I wanted to take you, but then it was just the band and Philips – the label manager. He was at the 'Life Café', heard us, liked us and then…God, Mark, it's happening!"

Roger's grin widened even more when he saw his friend's eyes light up at the news. He was so over the top he wanted to shout! Finally it was happening. He'd get his shot at stardom. No matter how small the label, how insignificant the CD. It was a testament to his work. A reminder – one thing to leave behind.

"Roger…" Mark opened his arms, not knowing what to say. To see the other man like this, with the spark he had lost along the way back in his eyes, the enthusiasm – it was exhilarating and it hurt like hell. Knowing that this chance came too late. No, not too late, just very late. Never too late.

Roger leaned forward, still trying to catch his breath, not caring for anything but Mark's warmth as he was enveloped in a tight embrace, his head on his friend's shoulder, one hand stroking the back of his neck, the other smoothing his wild hair.

"Congratulations."

There should have been something meaningful said then. Or maybe not. Roger sighed with closed eyes, already drowsy now that the adrenaline had worn off. The day had been fantastic, brilliant, wonderful – and hectic; and he was tired. He felt Mark's lips against his forehead, then his leather jacket was tugged over his shoulders. 

"Bedtime."

"Can't I sleep here?" Roger's voice was quiet, a little slurred with sleepiness.

"If you want. But you have to change. Take off your shoes, I'll get the blankets."

Carefully pushing the other man's body off of his, Mark got up, smiling over his shoulder as Roger slowly moved to comply with his command. He was lying on his back, in t-shirt, briefs and socks, when his friend returned with the blankets and a pair of flannel pyjamas. Which had been a 'welcome home' present from Joanne. Who also happened to be the most practical one of the gang.

Roger accepted his sleeping trunks and put them on, yawning widely. "When are you getting up tomorrow, Mark?"

"I'm meeting a reporter at the WTC at ten, so I suppose eight-thirty will do. Why?"

Instead of answering, Roger lay back in the makeshift bed and lightly tugged at his friend's hand.

"Isn't it a bit cramped?"

"Cramped?" The tone was innocent, but the mischievous grin said it all. Shaking his head with a smile, Mark took off his pullover and jeans, pulling on his own pyjamas that he had brought before crawling onto the couch next to Roger, settling against his body.

"Comfy?" 

"Yeah. Night." Putting an arm around the other man's waist and kissing him lightly on the lips once more, Mark rested his head on the pillow, closing his eyes.

~ * ~

Roger fell into the preparations for the CD with unparalleled enthusiasm. Songs had to be chosen, harmonies practised, improvisations added – according to the responses to their live performances over the last months and Philips' recommendations. 

Mark loved the evenings they had together, how his friend would talk to him for hours, detailing each minute of his day. He didn't press his own news, there wasn't much happening that could be classified as exciting in his job. It was the same routine; true there were new faces and new stories each day, but in essentials, the work didn't change much.

He had started with his own film again. All the footage he had collected – but Roger knew nothing of this. Mark cut it in silence, in his room, when his friend was asleep. He didn't know yet if he wanted to show it to anyone. If he could. Because it was turning out to be far more personal and revealing than he had thought it would be.

A shot of Mimi, lying on the couch, smiling at Roger's retreating back. She was wearing one of his old, washed-out sweater's and leggings, making her look like a thirteen-year-old. Young and fragile. Beautiful and happy, content. Then she looked up, right into the camera and stuck out her tongue with a grin, waving.

  
Probably Roger wasn't ready to see this yet, even though it was an integral part of the film. And Mark was sure he wasn't quite ready to acknowledge how many extra minutes of footage labelled with a simple "R" were beginning to pile up in his room…

~

_Fade in on the steeples of the church. Fade out. Cut to Collins crying. Sweep over the small group beside the grave. Fade out…_

"Hey!" 

Mark put down his pencil and closed the note pad he'd been scribbling on. Roger smiled at him a little too tightly before turning his back and setting down the guitar case. "How'd it go?"

"Rehearsal was great."

"Come here, Roger."

Mark patted the couch beside him. He didn't need to be told that it hadn't gone well at the hospital. Roger's face and manner were enough of an indication. He put his arm around the other man, before leaning closer and bringing their lips together. There was precious little he could say now, and even less that he could do to comfort his friend.

Roger sighed softly, not objecting when he was pushed backwards, and Mark nuzzled against his neck.

"You smell of leather." His jacket was pushed down a little, effectively trapping his arms, his body immobilized by his friend's weight on top of him. He chuckled.

"Like it?"

"Yeah." Softly exhaled breath tickled the spot where neck and jaw connected, making him shiver. Mark had discovered his own ways of getting to him. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to fall into the gentle explorations and the warmth that surrounded him. All so perfect, soothing, and full of life…

"I don't want to die." He almost choked on the words. He had never uttered them before, never dared to even think them. He heard a soft gasp, then Mark was kissing him, hard and possessively, clutching his shoulders. His friend's lips tasted of salt and he was trembling slightly, crying. Roger put his arms around him, pulling him as close as he could, returning the kiss with fervour.

~

Something wasn't right – his mind cleared as he swam into wakefulness. Roger let his eyes adjust to the darkness, smiling as the shapes in the room came into a hazy focus. There it was again – a soft, muffled sound, close to him. He looked towards the figure huddled to his right. 

"Mark?" His whispered question was answered by silence. He sighed, closing the short distance and spooning up behind his friend, one arm squeezing between the thin body and the bed, coming to rest on Mark's chest. Roger's free hand carefully stroked along a thigh while he kissed the tense shoulder.

At first his friend didn't react, but it wasn't long before he heard a whimper that turned into a stifled sob. A hand reached out for his, twining their fingers together, holding on tightly. Lying there, hugging Mark close, he realized that he wouldn't have needed a song to keep his memory alive after all.

~ * ~

Time flies when you have made plans, but especially when it leads to an event that you dread. Mark stalked home, glaring at the red golden mess at his feet: dying leaves, soggy with the rain. Wet as if with tears. 

Roger's frantic energy had got him through the summer, though his T-cell counts had dropped continuously; now that the cooler autumn weather had returned he was getting tired, shadows appeared under his eyes, and not even the medication could suppress the occasional coughs.

However much he wanted to, Mark hadn't been able to keep his friend at home, bundled up in blankets and save from any outward influences that might affect his health. The CD was almost finished, due out in late October, and was still being worked on hard.

It would prove to be quite an interesting launch, since for all his talking to the dozen about his pet project, Roger hadn't volunteered a song list. Not a word had passed his lips and even Maureen hadn't been able to wheedle it out of him. Mark supposed that 'Your Eyes' would be featured, since it was one of those songs that had been very favourably received at most of the band's performances. Other than that, however, he really didn't know. He had the feeling Roger had a surprise in store for them, though.

~

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mum, this is Mark."

"Mark, dear, I haven't heard from you in ages; you never call; is everything alright? It's November and you haven't said anything about Christmas yet; I don't even know what to get you…"  
  


Mark suppressed a sigh as he tuned out his mother's voice. She had a habit of talking incessantly that reminded him of Alexi Darling when she was nervous or excited. He had no idea which mood she was in now, though. He hadn't called for a couple of months, writing her a postcard instead, full of false happiness.

He couldn't tell her about Roger, about his friends. She'd only tell Cindy, his 'proper girl' of a sister with her perfect family and then, which was even worse, split on him to his father. And that was the last thing he wanted. His relationship with his best friend was precious and one of the few things he was proud of in his life. No need to have it spoiled by one of those talks Cohen senior was so fond of.

"Mum, listen, I won't be coming for Christmas."

"But why? Cindy and the kids'll be here and your father wants to see you too. You haven't been home for ages!"  
  


Her voice sounded just slightly unsteady, with a bit of scolding thrown in for good measure; of course she was the only person in his family who wanted to see him and would feel left-out if he stayed with his friends.

"I'm sorry, Mum. There's just so much work at the channel. And since I haven't got a wife and kids, they're pulling me in over the holidays."

It wasn't really a lie. He needn't tell her that he'd taken off Christmas Eve (that's Dec 24, right?) and Christmas Day (that'd be the 25, the day you do the whole present thingy, right?). Celia would be coming round, Collins had promised to be there and Maureen and Joanne would surely drop by at some point. The most important reason for staying home, however, was Roger.

"It's alright, Mark. I'll mail your present then. What about New Year's?"

"I don't know yet, Mum, I'm sorry."

"Don't worry, dear. Just let me know a week or so in advance. You can bring one of your friends. What about your roommate – Roger, wasn't it?"

"Mum…thanks Mum. I'll…I'll ask him. I'll call you on Christmas Eve, okay? Say 'hi' to Cindy and the kids. How's Greg?"

"Oh, he's fine; he and Cindy are having another baby – can you believe that?"

Well, at least Mark had to concede that his mother was less enthusiastic than she had been before the birth of her first three grand-children. Unlike his father, she thought that two kids were quite enough; that was the reason he had been spared having more than one sibling. And he was grateful for it. It was easier to be compared to only one perfect daughter. 

"Oh, tell them I'm happy for them."

Smooth lie. But then, it had worked the other three times and his mother still didn't seem to suspect anything – or so he thought after her blithe, bubbly reply.

"I will, dear. I'm sorry you can't make it, but we'll just have to make it some other time. Do call me, will you?"

"Yes, Mum."

"But then, perhaps I should call you? I mean, the phone costs…"

"That's ok, Mum, really. I get paid, you know."

"Yes, of course, dear. I didn't mean to… You should really put your money into other things. Is there anything specific you need?"  
  


"Pullover or socks would be grand, Mum."

He wasn't quite able to keep the irritation out of his voice. It wasn't her fault, he knew that well enough. It was him, he just wasn't a good son, never good enough…

"Oh, well... I'll find something, I'm sure. Mazel tov, Mark. Don't forget to call. We love you."

"Me too, Mum."

He couldn't say 'I love you' – one of those things he hated himself for. He could much easier tell Roger, any of his friends. But not his own mother – he really was one big failure.

"Take care, dear. We'll miss you."

"Bye Mum."

"Bye."

He hung up, shaking his head slightly as he moved into the kitchen to make some tea for Roger. Celia had provided some herb infusions that, supposedly, helped cure tiredness, low energy, and colds. Mark didn't quite believe that, yet as long as his friend drank something warm, he wasn't going to complain.

It was a little past five thirty, and the sky was already darkening, though there wasn't much light lost after a cloudy, grey day anyway. Roger arrived just as the streetlamps were turned on outside, breathless from climbing the stairs, tired and worn, but still smiling brightly.

Throwing himself onto the couch and pulling his friend to sit beside him as soon as he approached with a cup of tea, he whispered, "Close your eyes."

Mark chuckled, though he complied. Whatever it was, this was a special moment for Roger and he wasn't going to spoil it. Cold hands touched his, and he resisted the impulse to grasp them and warm them up when something was pressed into his palm.

"Open your eyes."

As Mark did so, his eyes fell on a CD case, a washed out image of Broadway in shades of grey and simple silver letters framed in black: 'Glory'

"Wow." Not really eloquent, but what else could he have said, holding a dream in his hands?  
  


"One of the first to come off the press."

"Wow." Oh great, there he went again, but then it seemed to make Roger's grin even wider, which was good enough. Turning the CD case around carefully, he gazed at the song list. As he had supposed, 'Your Eyes' was the first track of fourteen. Nothing unexpected, nor was there any indication of the unusual. However, from the way his friend was glancing at him, he was sure he was missing something.

"What do you have up your sleeve this time, Roger?" None of the titles sparked any kind of recognition.

"You'll know when you listen to it."

"Can't you just tell me?"

"No, Mark. It'll be a surprise. We'll ask Joanne to organize a CD player or something for Christmas Eve. I'd like to – you know – present it to the whole gang. Officially, even though it'll be in the shops in two weeks. A private premiere of sorts, a bit of an extra celebration."

"Roger!" Mark gave his best impression of puppy dog eyes, not wanting to wait for almost a month, but his friend wasn't as easily swayed as some other people he knew and just ruffled his hair before kissing him lightly on the lips.

"I'm not gonna spoil this."

"Alright… is there a lyrics booklet?"

"NO! Give me that CD, Mark!"

"Ah, so there _are_ lyrics in there!" And they would probably clear up the mystery of what exactly made this recording so special. He didn't get farther than putting his fingers onto the sides of the case to open it, when his friend pounced upon him.

"You leave me no choice!" Roger's voice was thick as he tried to keep from laughing. He grabbed Mark's wrists and pulled them above his head. Capturing the other man's lips in a slow kiss, he succeeded in retrieving his CD, though he only pulled back for a moment to stuff it into the pocket of his jacket, one hand still holding Mark's wrists tightly.

Grinning down at his friend, he began to work his free hand under the three or four layers of pullovers and t-shirts he commonly wore at this time of year.

"Roger, what are you…"

"Can't you guess?" Mark chuckled as warm breath tickled his neck, but he didn't stop squirming, beginning to giggle when Roger finally made it through to his skin and tickled him mercilessly.   
  


"Do you concede?" Each word was accompanied by a light bite to his ear and a soft laugh that drowned in his own, helpless squeals. But he wasn't going to give in so easily. Even though he was already having a hard time breathing from giggling. Still, he didn't stand a chance.

"Y…essss!" He finally managed to get it out, and Roger stopped teasing him, kissing him firmly on the lips instead.

"How about we go to bed, Mark?"

Noticing the suddenly serious tone that replaced the earlier playfulness, he caught his friend's eyes, and saw that he was staring at him almost as if defeated. Tired to death – which wasn't the best thing to think. Yet again, being tired wasn't unusual. The coughing had gotten worse in the past week, and now that the CD was finally out, Roger's energy supply would be as good as gone.

"Sure; drink your tea, I'll get the pills, and then we'll crash…if you let me up."

"Hm. I'll think about it," a kiss to Mark's temple, "if you insist." Roger pulled back, letting go of the other man's wrists with a slow smile.

~ * ~

The last week of November brought, as far as Mark was concerned, the beginning of the most heart warming – and breaking – months of his life.

The day before the CD hit stores, Roger was admitted into hospital again. He maintained it was for routine check-ups, which no one believed, though they were all playing along. Pretending they didn't see how he lost weight, how the pallor of his skin was stark even against the white sheets, how hoarse his voice sounded, and how hacking his cough was.

He was now taking morphine on a regular basis, sleeping more often than he was awake. Sometimes it seemed as if he were never completely lucid. Celia refused to let him leave the hospital, which was probably for the best, since she could be with him and yet be certain he was in the best possible hands. Home care was all very well, but sometimes, it was no longer an option.

That was why Mark was more than a little surprised, when Roger called him on his mobile two days before Christmas.

"Hey, Mum said you'd taken a few days off over Christmas."

"Yeah, starting tomorrow. We'll be coming round for a bash in your room. Collins promised to sneak in some good stuff…"

"Won't be necessary. We'll celebrate at home."

Alarm bells rang. Mark remained quiet and waited for an explanation.

"I checked out AMA today."

There was no need to ask if Celia approved. If it was against medical advice, she was most certainly frantic.

"I don't want to be in there for Christmas, Mark."

"You've got your medication, right?"

"Enough morphine to take me over the edge three times, Mark. That enough?"

Was there anything he could answer? "I'll be home around five. You bundle up, or I'll have to desperate measures."

"Is that a promise?"

Roger was too impish and alert to be taking the required dose of pain killers. And it was none of Mark's business. Who was he to require his friend to drift about in a dream world without pain, yet with no full connection to what passed around him?

"Yeah, that's a promise."

Roger laughed lightly before hanging up.

~ * ~

The gang had come for Christmas, sitting on cushions on the floor, Roger occupying a nest of blankets on the couch. He was tired and in pain, though he didn't complain. No one could take those moments from him, memories of home and love.

Celia had brought a huge package with her, Mark supposed it was a CD player of sorts, since Joanne had failed to bring one; and she wasn't likely to simply forget one of Roger's requests. She had a tree with her though, small and scruffy-looking, though Maureen had the decency not to comment on its appearance.

The two leading ladies had broken up yet again before Christmas and were barely on speaking terms. Anything else would probably have been a shock to Mark – and Roger had chuckled quietly, mumbling something into Collins' ear which made the other man double over with laughter.

Mark wasn't sure where to put himself, much as he would have liked to sit beside Roger, hugging him close, he wasn't sure how his friend would react. His mother was there after all, and they hadn't told any of the gang of the slight changes in their relationship. Which was another strangely inappropriate word in Mark's eyes.

"Hey, Mark! You gonna stand there staring out the window all night?"

Roger was grinning, patting the space beside him that had moments before been occupied by his mother. He went over to the couch, sitting down, softly brushing his hand against the other man's. Unobtrusively, shyly. He didn't resist when a hand came to rest on his shoulder, slightly tugging him downwards.

They kissed softly, like an old couple that had known each other for years – light, easy, and meaningful. None of the others commented, even though Mark supposed they had seen them.

It was less formal then, at least for him. He could sit there, holding Roger's hand, stroking his cheek. He did no longer have to be guarded in his smiles, afraid of letting something slip that his friend didn't want to be known. The depth of their friendship was in the open and no one disputed it.

"I've got a surprise for you," Roger's voice was hoarse and quiet, though he was grinning from ear to ear, "the CD's out."

"We know that! But why did Mark chase me down the street when I suggested buying it?" Maureen was pouting prettily, Joanne laughed. 

"I've got it at home."

"Did you listen to it?" 

"Of course not, Roger! Mark would've had my head!"

"So what's the surprise, pal. We're waiting." Collins was certainly enjoying the conversation, holding up an, as yet, unopened CD case. "I brought mine, just in case."

"It's in the booklet." Mark winked at Roger, who chuckled.

"I meant to make a great speech announcing the CD, guys. Seeing that you've all got it already though…"

He was almost drowned out as each person – except for him – opened or unwrapped their recording. Joanne had given one to Maureen and one to Celia, and Mark produced the CD Roger had brought home. After all, it had sat propped against the Captain Crunch box one morning with a note saying: 'Don't open it before Xmas or else... Love R.'

It had been hard to keep himself from having a look. A peak. He'd gazed at that recording for quite some time as it lay on his bedside table. But now he didn't have to wait any longer. He took out the booklet and leafed through it.

Each of the band had included a short dedication, and Collins read Roger's out aloud.

"Great big thanks to the usual subjects, especially Philips. You rock!

To Mum, Angel, Collins, Joanne, Maureen, Mimi, and Mark. I love you."

Mark noticed Celia brushing a tear from her cheek as she went over to Roger, hugging him briefly. Joanne was smiling, Maureen and Collins looked struck. As for him, he had thought that the 'surprise' would be something along this line.

"How about we listen to it now?" His friend didn't like sentimentality. It made him feel uncomfortable, even when he was the cause.

"Great idea!" Joanne laughed.

"We got a CD player?"

Celia grinned, "You do now. Merry Christmas, boys."

Roger's smile broadened as she came over to hug him and then kissed Mark on the cheek.

~

Mark was genuinely surprised by the CD. He had known it would be good, but had to discover that it was actually brilliant. Each harmony worked, each song was perfectly accentuated and intoned. A success in each and every way.

Roger had fallen asleep on the couch, leaning against his mother, a pale, sculpted vision of the man he used to be.

"Mark, come over here for a moment."

Collins' smile was broad and his eyes were twinkling with mischief, which usually didn't bode well for anyone concerned.

"Did you know there are a few notes in there for each and every song?" Mark hardly managed to evade contact with the lyrics booklet that was waved into his face.

"No, I didn't."

"_Your Eyes is for Mimi, of course, but would you have thought that _Cry Love_ is for his mum, and the gang?"_

"I thought so. Roger kept looking from one to the other."

"Did you also notice him staring at you with a far-away smile during _Your Arms, My Home?"_

"Ah… no, I…" He remembered the song somewhat, of course. He had liked it at once – it was smooth, centred on Roger's voice, with little backup from guitar and the other instruments. Much like 'Your Eyes', but with a different quality. It had seemed very much like a love song.

"You should read the lyrics, Mark."

Accepting the booklet from Collins, he inhaled sharply.

'Dedicated to M., the only friend who ever sang for me.'

How could he have missed that? Quickly, he read on, taking great care to take in the lyrics, each word, feeling the emotions heavy in the text.

_'Your Arms, My Home_

_Smiles that are warmth,_

_Words more than comfort,_

_Caring each day and night_

_Patiently waiting for my cry._

_Reality drives crazy,_

_Friendship's sanity;_

_And here I am, deep in_

_Your arms, my home._

_Sparkles glistens in _

_The dark, ignite it: _

_Passion, fire, dreams,_

_Entrancing eyes._

_Reality drives crazy,_

_Friendship's sanity;_

_And here I am, deep in_

_Your arms, my home._

_A fever pitch of touch,_

_Sweat burning pain_

_Hands talking love_

_Lips shielding truth._

_Reality drives crazy,_

_Friendship's sanity;_

_And here I am, deep in_

_Your arms, my home.'_

It was clear to Mark that he couldn't bring this up when talking to Roger. It was a personal message to him. Akin to saying 'I love you', only in a way that fitted their relationship better than any overused, clichéd words.

~ * ~

Mark went back to work on December 30. He had to take on a double shift, which he by no means liked, since Christmas had taxed Roger and his condition had worsened. He had, however, refused to go back to hospital, and none of them had been able to persuade him otherwise.

It was barely six o'clock on a dreadfully cold and windy last day of the year, when he received the call he had dreaded ever since saying good-bye to Roger.

"Mark, he's at NY Downtown, 9th floor, room 2019. Do come round after work."

He did, of course, thinking that he could take it. That he had seen Roger at that god-forsaken place, that even though he was likely worse, he wouldn't be shocked. But still, nothing could have prepared him for the sight of his friend. 

It wasn't that his looks had changed so much – he was as pale and fragile as before. Yet, once again comparing the pallor to the stark, clean, impersonal whiteness of hospital sheets, remembering how he had come to visit Angel and Mimi in one of these rooms…it was harder each time.

Roger was asleep. Celia sat beside him, stroking his hand.

"He's fading away, Mark. The doctors say it can't be long now. He's not strong enough."

Her voice shook and she trembled when he put his arms around her. He could only nod.

~ * ~

It was early afternoon, yet the sky was dark and cloudy. Storm warning. If not for the interview with the Major's press aide, Mark would have been at the hospital with Roger. Actually, that was where he was planning to spend the night. Celia wouldn't move from her son's side, but she would get some sleep if he took over the vigil.

"Mr Cohen, there's an urgent call for you."

Mark looked up, gently placing the lens he'd been handling on a nearby table. His hands were shaking every so slightly, but his features were composed. He had been waiting for this _urgent_ call. For a time that seemed both interminable and painfully short. Getting up in slow motion, he mechanically trotted after the young girl and managed to smile at her as he took up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"He's stopped taking the morphine. And he checked himself out of the hospital. He wouldn't hear of contacting you till after lunch though the doctor said to call his friends..."

Making sure that there was no reason for Mark to skip his interview with the 'Fade In Mag'. It had been the source of some excitement in the past three days and was probably the single most important event in his career – but it wasn't that important. Not when Roger needed him. Damn him. He knew Mark's priorities far too well.

 "Is he at the loft?"

"Yes. He wanted to go home."

"I'll be there in an hour at the latest. Want me to call the others?"

"Joanne is here, Maureen is on the way."

"I'll phone Collins then. Celia, I…"

She had already hung up on him. Not that he blamed her. Her son was dying. It wasn't easy on her. Or on him either. Or on anybody. Mark sighed. Grabbing his mobile, he dialled Collins' number.

~ * ~

"Hey."

Accepting Collins' tight hug, Mark didn't need to ask if the other man had been waiting for him. The strong grip on his shoulder and the sad smile told their own story.

"The girls and I were just leaving. Call Joanne on her mobile when you need us."

Mark nodded; it made sense that Roger wouldn't want to have the whole gang watching him go. He just hoped he'd be welcome. He didn't want to stay, but he would be miserable if he couldn't. _Friendship is thicker than blood._

"You ready?"

"No."

"Go up." Collins smiled at him, surely thinking of Angel.

Mark shivered, pulling his coat closer around himself. He had seen his friend in hospital the day before. Had known that it was only a matter of a day or two. Been told by Celia. And still couldn't believe that these would be the last hours he'd get to spend with him. 

As he climbed the stairs slowly, he thought of a line from a Queen song: _'One by one, only the good die young.'_ Roger would love it. He had always been fond of Freddie Mercury. And especially of this song. A tribute to a great singer and songwriter. And true, so true that it hurt to think of it – Angel, Mimi…Roger. He knocked hesitantly.

The door opened. "Mark, dear." Celia hugged him even while pulling him inside. He returned her embrace hesitantly, his eyes fixed on Roger's still form reclining on the couch, bundled up in all the blankets their household could boast of. Mark still remembered a time when he hadn't been this cold. It was eerie.

"Is he awake?"

He was whispering, but the soft smile on his friend's face told him he'd been heard.

"How was the interview?" Roger's warm, rough tone carried on the stillness as his eyes opened slowly. 

_Fucking unnecessary. I'd rather have been with you._ He forced a smile, "Great. They've dubbed me the 'Bohemian filmmaker' though – it's tacky, don't you think?"

Roger laughed quietly, holding out his hand, "They pumped me full of shit, ya know?"

_It's their job to make you comfortable, that's all they can do; and you know it – you hate it. And try to brush it off._ He forced another smile, sitting down on the rickety chair beside Roger; lying on the couch – as if he were simply tired. He would find rest sooner than any of them had been prepared for.

He realized Celia had backed off, given him space to say goodbye – privately. He reached for his friend's hand, firmly grasping it. It was warm, slimmer and somewhat heavier than usually. The veins stood out almost starkly against the pallor – dark, blue, grazing the surface. There was an ugly purplish bruise where the infusion needle had pierced a blood vessel. Roger had always had delicate hands.

"I didn't want to…be in there, Mark."

"Yeah."

Too many memories, too much pain.

Roger sounded sleepy, only half-lucid as he had been so often in the past weeks, but he was smiling, tugging at Mark's hand lightly to bring him closer and whisper in his ear, "Sing something, Mark, it's too damn still. I wanna go with music."

Cool, soft lips brushed Mark's cheek gently as he drew back, and he couldn't stop the tears anymore. But it didn't matter. Not really. He would stay with his friend. As long as he was needed.

He got up, offering the chair to Celia, seating himself on the floor beside the couch. He still held Roger's hand, the other reaching up to tangle in his friend's soft hair, longer and more tousled than he had ever seen it.

Seeing Roger close his eyes and smile at the touch, he began to sing, his voice heavy with the tears he now shed freely and quietly,

_"When you're down and troubled_

And you need some loving care 

_And nothing, nothing's going right_

_Close your eyes and think of me_

_And soon I will be there_

_To brighten up even your darkest night…"_

~ * ~

Roger's breathing was too soft and too laboured and his every coughing fit sent a chill through Mark. He knew it wouldn't be long anymore. Celia was patting her son's face, whispering to him, little nothings, hushed 'I love yous', sweet assurances. 

He couldn't speak, not anymore, he was hoarse and the rain that pattered against the window was somehow fitting, the gloom in the loft heightening his sense of futility and ending. The golden orange gleam from two small lamps did little to warm the oppressive greyness, even as he lost the sound of Roger's breath.

One of his heartbeats passed, two, three, four… He didn't count anymore, pressing his mouth to the cool hand he held, raising himself enough to place one last kiss on Roger's lips before gathering Celia's sobbing form close.

He cast a short glance at his watch before closing his eyes, letting darkness wash over him: February 11, 4:30 am.

~ * ~

Mark opened the door for Celia, his hand resting against the small of her back – whether to support her or himself he didn't know. She had cried during the funeral, but now that it was over, she was strangely calm. As the others scattered, Mark closed the door and moved a step back, leaning against the doorframe.

The loft was bathed in a strange, cool light, cold like the air at this time of year still was. It was strangely empty for all there was a small group of people milling about. Benny had come to the funeral and was currently busying himself in the kitchen, making coffee with Collins. 

Alison had been invited, but stayed away; it was probably better to just have the gang. It was more fitting. Joanne was talking to Celia, probably telling her she was to execute Roger's will – surprising enough he had set one up. Maureen sat on the couch, fidgeting with the blankets that lay, neatly folded, on top of it.

He went over, sat down, and put his arm around her. She leaned against him, not even looking up as she accepted the cup Collins handed her a few minutes later. The quiet was oppressive.

"Collins, please put Roger's CD on. It's too quiet."

Celia's voice roused them all. It was strange to hear the first riffs filling the silence, the warm tone of Roger's voice filtering through the music, rising and falling gently. 'Your Eyes' – the song that was played on the radio now and then. None of the other pieces had made it. _One song, glory._

Mark cradled his coffee cup in his hand. He had never wanted to survive. Not like this, not so very alone. And yet, he was no longer numb, he had lived too much for that. Loved too much.

~ * ~

The small wooden box had been a present from his first girlfriend. Years ago, in Scarsdale, when he had wanted nothing more than to get out of that little hellhole and discover the world.

The box was filled with an array of little things: a thin leather band, black, wrapped around one of Mimi's dark curls. He had found it in the pocket of the leather jacket his friend had left him, perhaps because he knew how much Mark liked the smell on Roger's skin. In keeping a memento of Mimi he felt he was keeping her memory alive. 

Beneath it, neatly folded and stacked, a few sheets of notes, mostly torn. Roger's failed attempts at one song or another. A guitar string. A tube of red lipstick Angel had forgotten. Mark had never gotten the chance to give it back to her. Collins' first fake ID…and his first mention in the newspaper:

'N.Y.U professor killed. 

May 24, 2000. 

Yesterday afternoon, an argument at N.Y.U turned violent and ended in tragedy. At a house party, a discussion about the ethics of marketing spiralled out of control. Andrew B. and Gary H. (do US newspapers shorten/change the names of people when they write about them?) were engaged in a fist-fight, when a passing staff member (Thomas B. Collins) jumped in and attempted to separate them. The inebriated students turned to attack the professor, one of them producing a knife and stabbing him in chest and stomach. He died on the way to hospital. Police arrested Andrew B., Gary H. and a third student. They are being held for questioning and face charges.'

~ * ~

…I know there are angels. They touch you and they change your life. And even when they leave, your memories keep them alive. And they are never forgot…

Mark smiled as the room darkened, the silence more complete for the lack of light from the projector. His film. His tribute. The faces of his friends, Roger's voice, still strong and vibrant, rising and falling in the background, in tune with his narration. A final goodbye.

"This was 'Angels', a documentary by Mark Cohen." He stood up as the lights went on, smiling politely as he squinted slightly, a little uncomfortable with the applause. Somehow he was surprised he'd made it, that his entry had actually won. 

The "alliance between music and film" that the CMJ Film Festival celebrated, had been vivid in the soft riffs from Roger's guitar, accentuating the images, enhancing the poignancy of smiling faces and the mouthed words he had cut out, replaced with songs he knew too well. The glory his friend had left behind, shining for him in a film that celebrated life, and loved ones lost.

Sitting down again, Mark tried to lose himself in Roger's worn black leather jacket, one of the few tangible memories he had left. Remembrance was in pictures and sounds. At least for him. 

Celia patted his hand and there were tears in Maureen's eyes as she held Joanne's hand. Collins would have smiled at the sentimental title. And Roger would have laughed…

The End.

Additional Notes:

I tried to create a tangible background in this story – that means I used names and places that actually exist. I found them on the net (thanks for the help Shin ;D) and intend no disparagement or infringement of their rights by mentioning them.

Story Timeline 

Dec 1996 – Dec 1997: RENT-Musical

Dec 1997: Roger & Mimi together

Jan 1998: Song 'No-one But You' from Queen (Only the good die young…) comes out 

March 1998: Mimi dies 

March 1998 – Feb 2000: Mark & Roger

Feb 11, 2000: Roger dies

May 24, 2000: Collins killed

Oct/Nov 2000: CMJ Festival

Information about "Safer Sex Guidelines" and HIV in general was obtained from http://www.aids.org. The lyrics for the song (reproduced below) are from [http://www.niehs.nih.gov/kids/lyrics/youvegot.htm][2].

You've Got a Friend

(Words and music by: Carol King) 

When you're down and troubled

And you need some loving care

And nothing, nothing is going right

Close your eyes and think of me

And soon I will be there

To brighten up even your darkest night

You just call out my name

And you know wherever I am

I'll come running to see you again

Winter, spring, summer or fall

All you have to do is call

And I'll be there

You've got a friend

If the sky above you

Grows dark and full of clouds

And that old north wind begins to blow

Keep your head together

And call my name out loud

Soon you'll hear me knocking at your door

You just call out my name

And you know wherever I am

I'll come running to see you

Winter, spring, summer or fall

All you have to do is call

And I'll be there

Ain't it good to know that you've got a friend

When people can be so cold

They'll hurt you, and desert you

And take your soul if you let them

Oh, but don't you let them

You just call out my name

And you know wherever I am

I'll come running to see you again

Winter, spring, summer or fall

All you have to do is call

And I'll be there

You've got a friend

   [1]: mailto:ferngully_at@yahoo.com
   [2]: http://www.niehs.nih.gov/kids/lyrics/youvegot.htm



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